


These Wretched Creatures

by CozyCryptidCorner



Series: Gift from the Nighttide [1]
Category: Original Work, exophilia - Fandom
Genre: Changeling - Freeform, Changling Boyfriend, Engagement, Exophilia, F/M, Female Reader, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Marriage, Monster Boyfriend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-13 01:47:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16883301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CozyCryptidCorner/pseuds/CozyCryptidCorner
Summary: An accident only you know about. A dead body you had to hide in the night. You are expecting every person within your village to be rapid with rage, searching for a culprit to put the blame. You know it would only be a matter of time before you would be hanged, or worse, burnt at the stake. Strangely, though, everyone behaves as if nothing is wrong.And then you see why.





	These Wretched Creatures

Given that the town you live in is tiny and isolated, the amount of men you could court is awfully small. As the other girls begin growing into womanhood, the boys started to be snatched up faster than you can blink. Given that you had very little interest in marriage, much to your father’s chagrin, you ended up getting the leftovers of the pot when you were finally convinced to settle down.

 

It is not as though you don’t like any of the boys, you just don’t see how you can raise a family with them. Deciding who to spend the rest of your life with, for better or for worse, is no small task. Your mother calls you overly picky, but how can anyone blame you?

 

After quickly shifting through the others, you manage to start courting one of the Miller boys. Duncan has a mop of red curls, his skin peppered with countless freckles. He is a few inches taller than you, strong from carrying bags of grain to and fro, and has the most charming laugh. There is the slightest limp in his walk from an accident at the mill, barely noticeable to anyone who does not know him. Maybe not the most handsome of the town, but certainly reliable.

 

You allow him to hold your hand during the harvest festival, the buzz from the bonfire and drink lowering your boundaries a bit. When he offers to walk you back through the woods to your home, you accept. At first, it seems as though everything is fine. You and Duncan talk about working, about the differences between the family businesses.

 

Then his hand slides down, touching you in a place you do not wish to be touched. Immediately, you recoil. Duncan tries again, more insistent, pressing you up against the tree and pawing at your chest. “Come on, you’ve been teasing me all night, how’s a lad supposed to react?”

 

Fear, cold and icy, pumps through your heart. “I did no such thing, Duncan Miller. Release me.” You manage to keep your voice from trembling.

 

His breath smells like alcohol as he gives your cheek a sloppy kiss. “Making eyes at me? Touching me?” Your arms are pinned between the tree and his body, you wriggle, but there is no give. “You want this,” Duncan snarls, toying with the waist of your skirt. “Think of it as a down payment for the wedding day.”

 

Fury takes the place of fear, a burst of energy pulsing through you. When Duncan comes in for another kiss, you thrust your head forward, bashing against his nose. He curses and sputters, stepping away and freeing you from his grasp. Blood drips down his face, his eyes on you like a predator. You don’t give him time to recuperate. Throwing entire body weight against him, you shove him down as hard as you can manage.

 

There is a sickening  _crunch_. Duncan’s body lays limp on the ground, his head on a sharp rock. He does not move. Terrified of approaching him, you pick up a stick and hesitantly poke his arm. “Duncan?” You whisper, lungs squeezing hard inside your chest. He makes no answer, none of his fingers twitch.

 

In the darkness, you did not notice the blood oozing out of his head until now. It leaks onto the rock, soaking into the soil. You place your head on his chest and listen. No heartbeat.

 

Jesus Almighty, you just killed someone.

 

You vomit, managing to aim into the bushes. Tremors shake your body, your muscles suddenly feeling too cold. Your head feels light, your feet suddenly heavy.  _get it together_ , you think in a panic. Duncan’s body will be easy to find out on the open trail, you need to move it.

 

Maybe the Devil had a shred of mercy to give your sinful soul, giving you the strength to complete this horrible task. You manage to pull Duncan’s lanky body into the forest by his feet, your back aching as you pull and yank,  _pull_  and  _yank_  his body forward. Something salty hits your lips in a warm drop, and you pray that it’s your tears and not his blood.

 

The steady drumbeat of your heart pounds in your brain, echoing inside your skull. Once you think that he is far enough from the path, you run back to your house, as fast as your legs can take you. When you get back home, you curl up into bed and cry, your shoulders shaking. When your other family members begin returning home, you pretend to be asleep and wait for them to mention something about Duncan. No one says a word about him, and so you manage to catch a few minutes of sleep.

 

The next morning you feel like absolute shit.

 

You try resisting going back to town in the morning, but your ma will not have it. No one slacks off in the village, nor will you. You walk with her to work, your body hunched over, tightly hugging your shawl as though it can shield you from view. In town, everything seems… normal. Your body is stiff with terror that someone will point at you and shout  _murderer_ , but no one offers you so much as a side glance.

 

And then you see why.

 

Familiar tuffs of ginger wander by, arms full with two bags of flour. You have to blink and rub your eyes, sure that you are hallucinating now because Duncan is out making his morning flour delivery to the baker. Not a single bruise discolors his pale skin, his nose is in perfect condition even though you are absolutely sure you managed to break it.

 

“Jesus Christ,” you whisper, your stomach churning in knots. Your mother smacks you upside the head, not hard enough to hurt, scolding you for taking the name of the Lord in vain. Muttering an apology, you quicken your pace and follow Duncan up to the bakery, watching his every move.

 

The flour sacks are slammed down on the baker’s counter. The two men chat for a few minutes, then Duncan turns to leave. He sees you, half inside the bakery and staring at him with wide eyes. Cocking his head, he walks past you with an almost confused look on his face. He does not greet you.

 

All your insides squeeze and clench together. Your mother walks over, her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Did something happen with Duncan last night? Are you upset?”

 

“I don’t know, Ma.” You really don’t. Did you imagine the entire thing? Was it all just a dream?

 

She purses her lips with worry, placing her hand on your back to usher you back to the spinster house. Working with your mother and the other more experienced spinsters requires you to do the most mindless of tasks, such as holding out your arms so someone can properly wrap the yarn. Usually, you drag your feet about sitting still, the monotony positively stifling, but today you can definitely use the motions of normalcy to feel secure and to think.

 

The events felt so  _real_ , you can not see how you made them up. The desperation, the fear. Your arms are even sore from pulling his stiff body into the woods. You remember the blood glittering in the moonlight, the velvet red almost beautiful in a terrifying kind of way. How can Duncan be up and about with nigh a blemish on his body? None of this makes sense.

 

When the women all decide to take a noon break, you offer to stay and sort out all the new yarn balls by color. You don’t want to go back out there, where  _he_  is. While you place all the green wool in a little basket, you hear a knock on the door. Turning around, your heart freezes in place as you see Duncan standing in the doorframe.

 

“Hello.” He is holding out a wildflower in your direction.

 

You make no moves to take it, staring at him with fear in your heart. Duncan tries again, saying, “We are courting, yes? I picked this out for you. My sister says that girls like flowers.”

 

With shaking hands, you accept his gift, afraid of what he would do if you reject it. “Thank you.” Your voice is barely a whisper, and you study his face for any kind of hint that you at least did some damage there. There is nothing, his nose as smooth and straight as ever.

 

“Is something the matter?” Duncan asks.

 

“No. Nothing.” It’s official, then. You have gone insane. Last night was just a dream or a hallucination of some kind. Maybe a changeling took the form of Duncan and tried assaulting you. There is no way to find out, you suppose. “Um. Would you like to eat supper with my family tonight?”

 

“If your family would not mind my company.” Duncan agrees, smiling.

 

“I will see you then.” You squeeze past him, running down the path to catch up with your mother. Everything inside of your chest seems to be rattling around, every breath you take feels like a fight. All throughout the rest of the day, you try thinking about anything and everything else. You count to one thousand, you recite as many Psalms as you can remember, you partake in the idle gossip the older spinsters spread.

 

Your mother excuses herself before you from the spinsters to start supper, while you stay longer to help finish the work. At the end of the day, when you exit out of the spinster’s house, Duncan is waiting for you, hands in his pockets. One of the older ladies gives you a mischievous wink.

 

“Shall we go?” Duncan asks, holding his arm out to you. You accept it, still nervous about touching him but not wanting to look rude. The two of you walk back towards your house, walking on the same trail as you walked last night. Everything seems to  _much_ , the sun is too bright, the green of the forest is too vibrant, the smells of dirt and mildew too pungent.

 

All of a sudden, your body turns against you. Your lungs quit working, no matter how much you choke and gasp, it’s not enough air, not enough air. Drowning above water, you fall to your knees, an overwhelming sense of dread washing over every fiber of your body. The sky screams of danger, but you don’t know what or who or why. Your teeth or chattering but you don’t feel cold. You think you feel hot, with shivers running through your body.

 

A hand cradles your head, a voice urging you to  _breath deeply, don’t gasp._  You try your damnedest to do so, filling your lungs to the brink and puffing out air as slow as possible. Without meaning to, you find yourself leaning into the touch, searching for a semblance of love and comfort in the midst of your panic.

 

You must have fainted for a few moments since you do not remember Duncan taking you in his arms, though when you open your eyes, you realize that you are clinging to him like a child. He holds you, rocking you back and forth, whispering things like, “I’m here, don’t worry,” and “tell me what you need, please.”

 

Every muscle within your body is weak and shaking. Even so, you manage to detach yourself from Duncan and shakily rise to your feet. “Oh my,” you manage to speak, your legs quivering with fatigue, “I must be fatigued.”

 

“I believe it was more than being tired,” Duncan says with concern, standing as well. He takes a step towards you, and you are quick to recoil.

 

“No- it’s not. Please.” You shake your head, tears filling your eyes. “Please don’t tell anyone. I’m begging you.”

 

“Isn’t there anything-” Duncan starts, with you quick to interrupt.

 

“No. You don’t know what it’s like. You don’t know how the doctors treat this. They’ll say ‘twas demons or some shite, and best case will just tell me to pray it out.” You feel utterly pathetic, shivering with heat, tears falling down your cheeks. If you are to marry him, it will have come out one way or another. You just wished that, fuck, you don’t know, it could have come out differently.

 

“All right. Here, put your arm around my waist. It will take some of the weight off of your legs.” Duncan steps beside you, sliding his hand near your armpit. You will admit, you do feel less stress in your hips and knees in this position.

 

“Thank you,” you manage to whisper, your damaged pride making it hard to speak. Since you began to have these fits, you did everything in your power to make sure no one would know. It was from the shame, you suppose, at being told that God must be punishing you for something. Your mother heard whispers of another boy like you who was suddenly overcome with fits, only to have his father beat him to death for being bewitched.

 

You don’t  _think_  your father would beat you to death for being bewitched… would he?

 

“I think I can walk on my own now.” You lie, seeing your family’s cottage up ahead in the trees.

 

“Are you certain?” Duncan responds, loosening his grip around your waist.

 

“No,” you snort, taking a baby step by yourself, “but I can’t let my mother worry, you know how she gets.”

 

Duncan hesitates before agreeing. He walks at a respectful distance, yet still hovers as though he is waiting to catch you should your legs give out again. You suppose it is rather kind of him. With every step, you feel yourself recovering, though you know you should drink a pint of water before you feel good as new. And maybe a pint of beer to not feel as idiotic as you do now.

 

The actual dinner is uneventful. Your father talks to him about ‘man things,’ effectively shutting you out of the conversation. You know better than to try and insert yourself there. Once the food has been picked clean, you begin assisting your mother in clearing off the tables.

 

“Here, let me help-” Duncan rises, but your father grabs his arm.

 

“Let the women do the women’s work. Us men don’t need to involve ourselves.” You father chuckles dangerously, then gives a firm smack on Duncan’s back. Slowly, Duncan puts down the plate he had picked up, eyes meeting yours as though trying to convey an apology.

 

You do not say anything incriminating with your father eyeing your behavior like a hawk. As you retreat back to the kitchen, you hear the topic of marriage being brought up. Embarrassment fills you to the brim, taking the place of the very blood that runs through your veins. You harness the anger you feel towards your father and take it all out on the pot you are scrubbing, your arms aching with the effort.

 

Duncan comes to say goodbye to you before he leaves. Your mother lets you step outside with him for a minute so the two of you may have some privacy. The air tastes like rain, crisp and clear right before a thunderstorm. The stars are blotted out by clouds, the moonlight barely peeking through to illuminate Duncans’ walk home.

 

His hands fidget with nervousness. “So, ahm…” Duncan avoids your eyes. “Your father tells me that we are to be married within a month’s time.”

 

Your heart sinks. This was expected, yes, but you assumed that your father would wait for two or three dinners before harassing someone into marriage. A long sigh puffs out of your lungs, and you turn your gaze up to the sky. “I should have warned you about my Da. He’s just… passionate. And worried.”

 

“Well,” Duncan says slowly, “I don’t mind. Marrying you, I mean. As long as you are fine with marrying me.”

 

Last night bubbles to the surface. His hands fumbling for your breast, his boozy breath on your ear and whispering disgusting promises. Your stomach threatens to reject your dinner. “I’m afraid that I don’t have much say in the matter, Duncan. If you and Da are in agreement, then it shall be so.”

 

Duncan is silent for a moment. “Look, if you don’t want to marry me, then I will go back into your house and reject your father’s dowery. You probably deserve better than me, anyway.”

 

You laugh, drily. “There is no one better than you, Duncan. You are one of the last bachelors in the village close to my age. It is either you or old man Aengus and to be honest I really don’t prefer the latter.” You take a deep, shaky breath, and add, “besides, Da will probably skin me alive if you reject us. Saying that I didn’t  _’try hard enough to seduce you’_  or whatnot.”

 

His large hands are placed on either side of your shoulders, his brown eyes looking almost yellow in the lamplight. “I’m sorry it has to be like this for you. I’ll marry you, then. I promise to try making you happy, for as long as I have time on this earth.”

 

You sniff, trying to keep tears from forming in your eyes. That has to be the most beautiful thing,  _goddamnit, don’t cry_ , anyone who isn’t your mother has ever said to you. “Duncan Miller,” you try saying without your voice wobbling, managing it just barely, “I swear to God if you ever try harming me in any way, I’ll kill you. Understand?”

 

“I understand.” He kisses your forehead. “Goodbye.”

 

You watch him turn back to head through the forest with a perfect stride. Something about the way he walks bothers you, but you can’t think of why. You go back into the kitchen to help your mother finish the nightly chores, your father drinking beer while sitting by the fire. His pot belly strains against the fabric of his shirt, in contrast to your mother’s willowy frame.

 

“What are you looking at, mouse?” Your father barks, “Go help your mother or I’ll be inclined to sell you to the gypsies.”

 

 _I am already sold to Duncan Miller_ , you do not say, slinking back into the kitchen. Bitterness burns your insides, cold and built up from years of the same treatment. Time like these you hate your father and hate yourself even more for not being able to do anything about it. Maybe living with Duncan would be better for a time, until he grows used to having you serve his every whim. From the stories your mother tells you of her courting, you know your father was not always fat and demanding. The idea of wearing yourself to the bone for someone who could not care less about you has minimal appeal, but there is no escape. You are trapped in an uncaring world with naught but the void to shout your grievances.

 

The next morning, you tell your mother that you are going to the spinster house early to catch up on some work. Instead, you run through the forest, to where you are positive you left the body. There is nothing. No carrion birds, no scavenger animals poking through a dead body. But… There are marks in the ground, the dirt shifted in a way that looks like something substantial was dragged through. Your heart skips a beat as you notice something brown crusting several leaves together, like blood.

 

If this was where you left the body, then where was it? Did God somehow bring Duncan back from the dead, healing him entirely of the wounds you inflicted? Your throat is dry, but there are no other skid marks to show the body being dragged elsewhere. It is as though it had disappeared, which can’t be possible, which means you must have imagined the whole thing.

 

The conclusion is shaky at best, but you don’t feel like thinking of alternatives. What would some of the more superstitious people say? The fae took him and replaced him with something else. Which your father would loudly proclaim to be bullshit and hit you just for suggesting. Fairies aren’t real. You walk slowly to the spinsters’ house and try not to think about it for the rest of the day.

 

Duncan walks you home every day that you work. At first, you try to keep silent, afraid that if you talk too much that he will make fun of you just like every other man. But the more he wheedles you for conversation, the more relaxed you become and the more you are willing to chat. There is not much to talk about since everyone in your town knows everything about everyone. However, you have not spoken to Duncan specifically about everything. He has such a funny way of looking at things, almost like he’s new to living here.

 

Charming is not a word you would use to describe him, because he doesn’t behave like he wants nothing more than what is between your legs. One of the other boys, Flinn, tries charming the skirts (or pants) off anyone and everyone with flirty smiles and fake interest. Duncan is not like that, he is so much more sincere. Sweet, even, and not only listens to you talk but remembers what you say.

 

One time you mentioned your favorite flower, and the next day when you are ready to go home, Duncan is waiting for you with one of them. You can’t help but smile the entire way. The flower is just one of the many small things that make you slowly forget about that night. You soon chalk it up to just a nightmare, you  _did_  drink a lot during the festival. Maybe all the sweets and alcohol messed with your mind.

 

Everyone seems caught up in the fact that  _you_  are marrying. No one, it seems, thought that you would ever be tied down. Even old woman Lile was confident you would join her in being an elderly maid. Though most people are indifferent to your union with Duncan, one of the women, Sorcha, is one of the more superstitious ones. She is deeply concerned about your wedding date, stating over and over, “ _marry in the month of May, surely you will rue the day_.”

 

“I’m sure it will be fine, ma’am.” You say during a spinster session. “You know that the priests don’t like us partaking in the pagan superstitions anymore.”

 

“Mark my words, girl,” Sorcha clicks her tongue. “If our traditions did not work, then why have we passed them down for generations? See if your old bear of a father will move the wedding date to September.  _Marry in September’s shine, your living will be rich and fine_.”

 

“I don’t think Da will put off the wedding for four months, ma’am.” And he would throw a tantrum over you asking anyway. “He does not believe in such things, you see.”

 

“Men!” The way Sorcha says it, rolling her eyes to the ceiling with a dramatic exhale of breath, you find yourself inclined to agree. “I’ll talk to your Ma, then, sweet. See if she can push it up a few days, so at least you will be marrying in June.”

 

 _“Marry when June roses blow, over land and sea you’ll go,”_  you say in unison with her, smiling down at your work. “I would like to travel, ma’am. Maybe June  _is_  a better date.”

 

“There we go, sweet. Just don’t wander too far, your Ma and I would miss you dearly.”

 

Your mother somehow manages to convince your father to move the wedding date to the first of June. You do not know how she manages it, nor have the time to spend talking to your father for hours just so he can see the error of his ways. You hope to never have to do that with Duncan.

 

Duncan’s mother, with her flaming auburn hair that he obviously inherited from her, corners you one day. Her eyes are pinched with worry, her irises shifting about as if she fears being overheard. “Have you…” she takes a deep breath, steadying her voice, “have you noticed something about my son?”

 

“Duncan?” You need to clarify because Moira Miller has four sons. At her hasty nod, you ask, “what do you mean, noticed something?”

 

Moira shakes her head. “There is something different about him. He isn’t limping anymore, and you can not recover instantly from an injury like that. And he is acting different, so different from before he met you. I just thought since you are spending so much time with him, you would know?”

 

Her words rattle around in your head. You think back to that night for the first time in a long while, feeling suddenly very sick. “I… I really have not, ma’am. I have only just now started spending more time with him, so I don’t know what you mean.”

 

“Something about that boy is different.” Moira shakes her head, looking over her shoulder. “I am beginning to think he is… someone else.” The last two words are whispered, as though she deeply fears being overheard.

 

You know the stories of the changelings as well as any other red-blooded human. You know what she is suggesting. But if Moira is right, if Duncan… isn’t Duncan…

 

It would be your fault. Because you,  _Jesus Christ,_  you can’t even think the words. “Duncan is not a changeling.” You manage to say fiercely, though none of the conviction in your voice you possess in your heart. “They don’t exist. You know what the priests say, ma’am. We must not allow ourselves be overcome with the old beliefs.”

 

The worried woman does not seem entirely satisfied with your answer, but she does not press you further. You try distracting yourself with chores, but Moira’s words repeat over and over in your mind. A splitting headache forms, and you excuse yourself to lay in bed. Your breath is short, and you feel another fit coming. There is nothing to do but to shake in your bed, suffering through it as quietly as possible.

 

You can’t even look at Duncan the next day. He immediately picks up on your mood, not saying anything as he walks you through the forest. Your stomach bubbles with anxiety, and you know the only way to stop feeling so horrifyingly disgusting is to let rage into your heart. Finding things to be angry about is overly simple. Your father’s expectations of women. Duncan’s attempt at touching you. Being ridiculed because you aren’t a boy. Everything festers inside of you, growing more and more prominent until you realize that you are here, the place where it happened.

 

Your legs halt. Duncan takes a few extra steps before realizing you stopped and turns around. Hands shaking with fury and fear, you point to a familiar tree just a few paces away. “The night of the festival.” Your voice is almost too calm, given the circumstances. “You pinned me there. I couldn’t move as you touched me.”

 

His eyes widen slightly, nostrils flaring as he exhales. He says nothing, and you are glad for you would not know how to respond.

 

“Do you know how it feels? To be powerless? Even when something  _disgusting_  is being done to you?” Your hands ball into fists, your vision spotting as another fit threatens to take over. Nails dig into your palms, the pain keeping you centered and present. “I bashed my head against yours, then pushed you while you were stunned. I  _heard_  your skull break when you fell to the ground.”

 

A silent pause descends around you, like the calm before the storm. He stares at you, still as a statue, his eyes almost too light to be brown anymore. You glare at him harder, almost as though you wish to set his body on fire with your mind. “I  _dragged_  Duncan Miller’s dead body into the forest and left him to rot. So what in God’s name are  _you_.”

 

For a moment, he says absolutely nothing. For that moment, you fear that you are going mad and all of this is a grave mistake. Then he slowly raises his hands in surrender. “I don’t want to hurt you.” Not Duncan says, his eyes flickering a rainbow of colors. Yellow, red, orange, brown pass through his irises with every blink he makes. “Please, forget this. You don’t have to marry me, just don’t tell anyone else.”

 

“I  _knew_  it.” You feel your body begin to shake with another oncoming fit. “Where is Duncan’s body?”

 

“It was hidden at the start to keep loose ends from fraying. No one will know you killed him, I promise.” His voice turns soothing, and he takes a step in your direction.

 

“Stay-” your voice chokes as your lungs betray you, “stay away.” Your legs buckle, and you fall to your knees.

 

“Please, let me help you. Deep breaths, count to eight as you exhale.” He stays where he is, but his hands hover over you as though waiting for you to fall further.

 

“You don’t-”  _gasp_  “order me”  _gasp_  “changeling.”

 

“I promise if you let me help you now, I won’t ever touch you again if you don’t want it. I swear it on my name.  _Please_.” His voice is strained with desperation and concern as though he actually cares about you.

 

 _”Fine.”_  You manage to grit out in defeat, tears burning your eyes.

 

He darts as though a spell is broken, taking you into his arms and holding you close. A soft melody that he hums slowly relaxes you, your muscles unsticking from each other as he rocks you back and forth. You do as he instructs, inhaling in as he counts to four, holding your breath while he counts to seven, and exhaling as he counts to eight. Gradually but steadily your chest stops clenching with tightness, and you feel like you can breathe freely again.

 

“Alesdair,” he mumbles into your hair.

 

“What?” You whisper back, unsure of what you heard.

 

“You can call me Alesdair. Not in public, but if we are ever alone…” His voice trails off, sure that will never happen.

 

Whether or not you are willing to admit it out loud, you find yourself enjoying him holding you. The way his biceps fold around your body, gently adding pressure against your skin is absurdly comfortable. You have never felt in danger with Alesdair, which is more than what you could say for Duncan. You bury your face in his chest and focus on breathing, the aftershocks of your hysteria not nearly as bad this time.

 

“Alesdair,” you say quietly, “why are you here?”

 

After a moment, he responds. “I… hate my home. Beyond words. My mother had me through an affair with the… an important fae. Growing up was never easy. I saw the freshly dead body of a boy you in this forest and I just,” Alesdair takes a deep breath, “made a snap decision.”

 

You sit up on your own, folding your hands over your skirt. “I see.” Taking a shaking breath, you say, “if my Da finds out that we have broken off the engagement…”

 

“What do you want me to do, then?” He is asking because he genuinely doesn’t know. You realize that throughout your fit, you had been clutching his hand for dear life and have not let go yet. Instead of releasing it, you squeeze it tighter.

 

“When we talked. What you said to me. Was that all real or fake?” You ask.

 

“Real. It has been the most time I have ever been myself with someone, this I swear to you.” Alesdair squeezes your hand back.

 

You close your eyes, pressing your mouth shut and thinking. To say that you never liked Alesdair’s companionship while he pretended to be Duncan would be a lie. To tell the absolute truth, once you chalked killing Duncan to being a nightmare, you found that you craved his presence. You honestly, absolutely enjoyed being with him.

 

“Then no one has to know about all of this.” You shake your head, looking him in the eye. “We get married. We start a life. No one has to know that you aren’t Duncan.”

 

“So you would have me? Someone who is not human?” Alesdair asks, his eyes changing from brown to black, all the way. You recoil only slightly from surprise, but quickly place your hands on either cheek.

 

“Would you have me?” You ask in response. “My father says I talk too much. I question men’s orders and opinions. I won’t be your slave. The village boys will tell you that I am persistently annoying.”

 

Obsidian eyes stare into yours until you are sure that he is looking right through your very soul. And then he smiles, his grin slowly spreading across his face that brightens his features so much more than the sun could. “We are a perfect match, aren’t we? The Changeling and the girl who will bow to no man.”

 

Recklessly, you press your mouth against his in a clumsy kiss. “I like you, Alesdair. I truly do.”

 

“And I like  _you.”_  Alesdair kisses your forehead.

 

* * *

 

“I’d never thought I would live to see the day.” Old woman Lile fans herself with her hands.

 

“Leave the girl be, Lile Finnigan!” Sorcha helps the ancient lady to the rocking chair in the corner of the room. “She must be nervous as it is.“

 

“I am not, actually. I think I am just very excited.” You take just a sip of wine to ease your trembling while your mother fawns over your borrowed dress. The white has turned to a tannish cream with age, as this wedding dress has been passed down to the eldest girls in the family for generations. It took only a few hours for Sorcha and your mother to tailor it to fit your body like a glove.

 

You glance over to Moira, who has not said a word the whole morning. She stares out the window, towards the village center where other people are busy making preparations for the ceremony. As you look over Moira’s shoulder, you see Alesdair walking from the small chapel down the street.

 

The church bells ring, pulling you from your thoughts. “It’s time.” Your mother says, her eyes misty with tears. “Oh, my baby girl.” She hugs you tightly, nearly crushing your ribs. “I can’t believe you’ve grown up so fast.”

 

“May I have a minute with the bride?” Moira requests, turning around to face you.

 

“Yes, of course.” You are quick to agree, turning to your mother. “I’ll be at the church in a minute, Ma. Thank you so much for your help with the dress, Sorcha.”

 

Sorcha kisses you on the cheek. “My absolute pleasure, sweet. Don’t tarry long, we wouldn’t need the men to think you have cold feet!”

 

“No, ma’am.” You watch them leave, then turn back to Moria. She is crying, two tears gently dripping down her face, so perfect it could be a painting. Worse case scenarios slam into your mind before you can stop them.  _She knows, she knows, she knows, she knows, she knows._

 

Instead of stabbing, screaming, setting your dress on fire (you have a very active imagination), Moira steps forward and hugs you tightly. “Thank you,” she whispers fiercely.

 

Stunned, you awkwardly pat her on the back. “For… what exactly?”

 

“He changed after he met you. For the better. I was worried that he would end up drinking his life away in a tavern, letting his rage get the best of him.” Moira pulls back, smiling through her tears. “You bring out the best in my boy. I couldn’t be more proud to have you as a daughter-in-law.”

 

Guilt washes over you like a black wave, smothering you in its grip. You want to vomit out a confession then and there, but fear bites down on your tongue, keeping you from speaking.  _It was self-defense,_  you try thinking to yourself to ease the weight on your chest, _he would have done something worse if I had not stopped him. Self Defense, I did not intend to kill him. Self-defense against rape._  “Oh,” you say, your voice small.

 

You will always live with what happened, now you need to look forward. Perhaps that is incredibly selfish, but it is all you can do. Moira hugs you one last time, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. “Now,” she says, smiling while handing you a bouquet of wildflowers, “let’s not keep them waiting, shall we?”

 

Heart pounding in your chest, you walk with her over to the church. Your parents are both waiting for you, your father wearing his Sunday shirt that your mother freshly pressed that morning. “The ceremony is starting. Duncan is inside, almost to the altar,” your father says. He looks almost respectable, holding out his arm for you to take so he can walk you down the aisle.

 

“Thank you kindly for the offer, Da, but I will be walking myself down the aisle.” You square your shoulders, standing tall.

 

Your father frowns, his eyes narrowing slightly at your declaration. “Don’t be stupid. The tradition is that the father passes you off to the groom.”

 

“Well, I have decided that that particular tradition is backward, and since you are not forcing me to marry this man, then I shall willingly escort myself to him.”

 

Your father’s face grows red, for he enjoys any traditions that allow him to lord over the weaker sex. Before he can open his mouth, your mother interjects. “For Christ’s sake, be happy that she’s marrying at all! Four months ago she’d rather wander into a Faery ring than allow you to tie her down. Let the girl walk herself down the aisle.”

 

“I agree.” Moira comes to both your aides. “Besides, times are changing. I would hate to see you get left behind.”

 

Your father sputters, not used to resistance from either woman. Before he can come up with a proper threat to put everyone in their place, the doors open for you. Alesdair stands at the altar, eyes lighting up with joy as he sees you. All other emotions are gone but for ecstasy. You take a step forward without thinking, and then another step. Just a blink and you are at the altar as well, right in front of the man whose very presence fills you with comfort and bliss. Alesdair is holding a ring, a traditional one with an elaborate twist of metal.

 

The priest blesses both of you, beginning his sermon about marriage and fidelity. You do not pay a lick of attention, though, focusing instead on your groom. Only when is it time for you to recite your vows, do you manage to snap yourself out of your stupor. The both of you agreed to reject the church’s default vows. You and Alesdair wrote new ones together, wanting to do something different and unique for the odd union you will make.

 

“You cannot possess me for I belong to myself.   
But while we both wish it, I give you that which is mine to give.   
You cannot command me, for I am a free person.   
But I shall serve you in those ways you require,   
And the honeycomb will taste sweeter coming from my hand.   
I pledge to you my living and my dying, each equally in your care.   
I pledge to you that yours will be the name I cry aloud in the night,  
And the eyes into which I smile in the morning.   
This is my wedding vow to you   
This is the marriage of equals.”

 

You can almost hear your father’s organs rupture with shock and rage at your radical wedding vows, but he stays stony silent within the audience to keep from embarrassing himself. Alesdair goes next, veering slightly from what was practiced.

 

“You are Blood of my Blood, and Bone of my Bone.   
I give you my Body, that we Two might be One.   
I give you my Spirit, ‘til our Life shall be Done.”

 

A breeze suddenly picks up, whistling just outside. You feel the barest hint of a rumble in your feet, as though the very Earth lays witness to what Alesdair says. These vows are magical, you can taste it in the air. To break them would be to violate the laws of nature. Your heart swells, and you think you may burst from happiness. He continues,

 

“I pledge to you the first bite of my meat and the first drink from my cup.   
I shall be a shield for your back and you for mine.   
I shall not slander you, nor you me.   
I shall honor you above all others, and when we quarrel we shall do so in   
Private and tell no strangers our grievances.   
This is my wedding vow to you   
This is the marriage of equals.”

 

“By the power vested in me by God, you may kiss the bride.” The priest makes the sign of the cross.

 

Alesdair’s eyes sparkle with anticipation as he leans forward. When your lips touch his, you feel like sparks of lightning flutter through your body, and you melt into his arms. You think he must be holding you up because your legs are almost weak. When the kiss breaks, you are almost sorry such a beautiful thing must end.

 

Absolute silence reigns, until someone from the crowd shouts, “Let the Festivities begin!”

**Author's Note:**

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